


Swan Lake

by 221b_shezza



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Homophobia, Johnlock Gift Exchange, M/M, Teenlock, only a little and off screen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-02-12 13:43:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2112105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_shezza/pseuds/221b_shezza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Teenlock-Sherlock and John are dating, but someone isn't okay with this. Written for perlawellington for the Johnlock Gift Exchange. Really fluffy with a bit of angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Five, six, seven, plié._

Sherlock moved through the routine gracefully, up on his toes, as fluid as water.

_Coupé ,_ _relevé, pirouette._

Concentration was imperative _,_ any and all distractions were locked away in there specified rooms in his mind palace, allowing for greater attentiveness and focus that was absolutely vital to this part of the routine—

“Looking good, gorgeous.”

Sherlock startled at the familiar voice, miss stepped, and fell to the ground in an ungraceful tangle of limbs. His boyfriend’s low chuckle met his ears as he sat up, flustered.

“John!” Sherlock smiled, clambering to his feet as John grinned widely.

“Hey, babe,” he said, pecking Sherlock on the cheek when he drew nearer. Sherlock blushed, still unused to such affection even after six months of dating. To be fair, they were the only six months of dating experience he had, but still.

Golden hair was plastered to his head, skin glistening and damp with sweat. _Rugby practice. Only got halfway through warmups before being allowed home._ “Practice let out early, then?”

“Barely started. _Someone,_ ” John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock, “Let out all the air from the rugby balls.”

“You can’t honestly be suggesting I stooped to such a low level of mundane criminal activity?”

“Oh no, I’m not suggesting anything. Except we used those balls for PE during seventh period, and they were fine. I just _wonder_ who could have snuck into the sports supply closet between then and practice, let out all the air from more than ten rugby balls, then get back to class without have getting caught?”

Sherlock considered this for a moment, brow furrowed in thought, before rolling his eyes. “Moriarty. Obviously.”

“Jim Moriarty?” John laughed, “You think he did it?”

“Who else has the skill set to accomplish such a thing?”

“Alright, I get that, but…why?”

“Sebastian Moran,” Sherlock drawled, drawing out the name in blatant contempt. It was no secret that James Moriarty and rugby captain Sebastian Moran were an item, what with the pair flaunting it every chance they got and constantly being handed referrals for ‘misconduct’, the likes of which were never revealed to students but inevitably were exposed by way of rumor mill.

It was also no secret that Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty were arch rivals, and therefore by extent, as were Sherlock and Sebastian and John and Jim. John had nothing against Sebastian, nor did the other boy against John. There was a silent understanding between the two that, should harm come to either one of their boyfriends through the other, one of them was going home with a mar on their permanent record.  

John mulled this over in his head. “Makes sense,” he agreed, “So why’re you here? I thought this place was closed this time on Tuesdays?”

“It is,” Sherlock stated simply, gathering his things, “Madame Dzubinsky owed me a favor, so I get to stay late as long as I lock up afterwards. It’s no trouble.”

“Uh huh. And do I want to know why she owes you a favor?”

Upon reflection, he realized John didn’t really need to know that his ballet teacher’s partner had come onto him, confirming Madame Dzubinsky’s suspicions that he was a compulsive cheat, and Sherlock’s that he had an obvious thing for younger men. Mycroft’s Police Constable Boyfriend, Lestrade, had been notified of the situation in case it developed into something more worrying. “Probably not.”

“Alright then. You all set?” John asked as Sherlock slung his school bag over one shoulder.

“Why are you in such a hurry to leave?” Sherlock huffed, “I should have practiced longer. I expect a flawless excuse for interrupting my much needed rehearsal.”

John smirked at his boyfriend’s pout. “ _I’m_ just taking the opportunity of some free time to take my gorgeous boyfriend on a date,” he said, planting another loud and horribly wet smooch on Sherlock’s cheek. The younger boy flushed crimson, wiping his check with the back of his hand, internally debating whether to scowl or smile.

“I suppose that can qualify as a good excuse,” he mumbled. John reached out and took his hand as they left the dance studio with a jingle from the bell above the doorway.

 

* * *

 

 

“So what were you so busy practicing for anyway?” John asked, muffled by a mouthful of chips. Alright, so maybe the fish and chip shop a few blocks down the road from Sherlock’s poncy dance academy wasn’t exactly romantic date material. But from the way Sherlock had attacked his portion with such fervor that John had almost never seen on him before, it probably wasn’t that bad of a date. Besides, it was right outside of the park where they’d first gotten together. So it couldn’t be all bad, right?

 _“Sherlock! Sherlock, wait!” John forced his legs to go faster, pump harder, feet slapping the pavement in a desperate bid to keep up with the boy a few meters in front of him. His legs ached, his lungs felt ready to explode, but he had to—_ had to— _catch up. He couldn’t let Sherlock leave. Not after what he’d said._

_Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks, and John could see the way his shoulders slumped further, the way he seemed to debate with himself whether or not to turn around or keep walking. Eventually he turned, keeping his head down as John pounded to a stop in front of him._

_John was shocked to see tear tracks marring the pale skin of his cheeks, eyes red and puffy. “John, I get it. You don’t feel the same way, and I’m just an idiot with a crush. Just leave me alone already,” he bit out, trying to keep his voice steady. John caught his elbow as he swung around again, pulling the younger boy roughly around to face him._

_“Not on your life, mate,” he whispered, and crushed their lips together before Sherlock had a chance to reply._

John smiled at the thought of their first kiss, one that lead to many, many more, each as thrilling and wonderful as the last. Six months later, and he still never tired of the shy smiles or quick, embarrassed peck Sherlock gave him, the looks of adoration or the bright blush that followed whenever John actually _caught_ the looks of adoration, the completely unexpected yet never unacknowledged fact that Sherlock loved to cuddle, constantly collapsing on or twining himself around John anytime they were alone. It was all rather adorable, and John was…well, he was in _love._ Maybe they were just seventeen and had only been dating for a handful of months, but they’d been friends since primary school and John had fancied Sherlock for god knew _how_ long. It seemed fitting that he had already decided he was in love.

“There’s a recital coming up during winter holiday. We’re doing a modern rendition of _Swan Lake,”_ Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Which has nothing to do with Christmas, other holidays or winter itself, so why they chose this for the Winter Recital is anyone’s guess, although it’s most likely because that’s the easiest and cheapest play to put on for an academy like ours.”

“Blimey, why would you all want to put on something easy and cheap? For all you pay to go there you’d think they’d go for something with a little more…I dunno, class?”

Sherlock shrugged. “That and Madame Gregor obviously had a starring role in it when she was younger and wants to relive her childhood through teenagers. But it’s still anyone’s guess.”

John burst into laughter, and Sherlock gave him a small, shy smile. “So do you have a role in this reliving of you dance instructor’s childhood?”

“Er, yes. I’m to play Prince Siegfried, the male protagonist.”

“Sherlock!” John grinned maniacally, “That’s huge! You’re one of the main characters this time around, baby, that’s great!”

Sherlock ducked his head and shoveled more chips in his mouth in an effort to hide his pleased smile. Another thing John didn’t need to know was that auditions had been the very week after their first kiss, and that Sherlock was still so high on giddy relief and joy when he auditioned it had led to him landing the part of the love-struck protagonist.

“Yes, well, Madame Gregor seems pleased with my progress. She’s stopped calling me William, at least, although Scott wasn’t exactly my second choice.”

“Well, _William,_ where can I buy tickets to this prestigious event?”

“Oh, um…” Sherlock swallowed nervously, “About that—John, I understand that this is the sort of thing boyfriends do, but you really don’t have to come. Mummy is insisting on bringing Fatcroft with us, and, well, I wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

John glared at him. “If you think for one second that I am missing you in a leading role for once instead of bloody ‘tree number three’ like last year— _don’t look at me like that, we both know you only got that role because Gregor hates you—_ you are more insane than I originally took you for.”

“Really?” Sherlock mentally winced at how hopeful he sounded even to himself.

“Yeah, ‘course really. Just have to pass it by my dad is all.”

An uncomfortable silence fell, as the full meaning behind John’s words sank in, and both boys shifted uncomfortably.

“John…”

“It’ll be fine, alright?” John said confidently, reaching out to take his hand with a reassuring smile, “There’s no bloody way I’d miss this.”

 

* * *

 

 

Fourth period the following day brought a substitute teacher for Sherlock’s AP chemistry class and a subsequent detention upon the revealing of said substitute’s trying divorce and multiple cheating partners to the entire class.

John, of course, was not pleased with this news upon meeting Sherlock in the second-floor loo for a moment of privacy (“No one ever uses this toilet, John, I assure you it’s completely secure”) and a bit of midafternoon snogging (“And that is as far as it goes, Sherlock, I refuse to do anything more in a place that smells like _this”_ ). The easy solution to this, Sherlock had found out months ago, was to simply snog the displeasure out of John until whatever had upset him in the first place remained a mildly annoyance.

“What did I say, I said don’t get clever,” John snarked in between kisses, “You knew perfectly well you would get a detention, but _nooo_. The great Sherlock Holmes has to show off.”

Sherlock snorted, “Obviously,” he said, nipping at John’s lip, “She was calling me a nuisance, John. Even you can understand that my honor was being questioned.”

“Oi, watch it there, _William_ , I don’t want to go back to lunch with bleeding lips.” This earned him a menacing growl (quite a hard feat to accomplish when one had been thoroughly snogged not a minute earlier), but his boyfriend was properly subdued with a quick kiss and a smirk. “Right, well, I’ve got to go back to lunch, and you have a study hall teacher to torment.”

Sighing deeply, Sherlock carefully combed his errant curls back into place and made himself semi-presentable. “I’ll text you as soon as I can figure out a way to sneak my mobile past the detention monitor. Should take about a minute or two, maximum.”

“If it doesn’t, I’ll just assume you’ve been taken captive again,” John grinned, pecking one final goodbye kiss on Sherlock’s cheek.


	2. Chapter 2

Violet Holmes knew anything and everything that went on in her sons’ lives.

Sherlock and Mycroft had exceptional observation skills and powers of deduction. Of course, they had gotten those skills from _her_ side of the family. As much as she loved her husband and in-laws, Siger’s side could be rather… _ordinary_ at times. It was only fitting that she came to know nearly everything about her boys (nearly, because she didn’t need to know when it didn’t concern their mental and physical wellbeing. She gave some _some_ privacy, at least.)

Violet knew the moment Mycroft had given up on piano lessons when he was seven, and when Sherlock fell in love with the violin at age five, then dance a year later. When a particularly bad grade came home with a surly son, whether a teacher was to be commended for their efforts or written about in a concerned letter to the headmaster, when a lie was told, when a child was doing something they shouldn’t. When the nasty boys at Sherlock’s school were being particularly cruel, and when Sherlock had been particularly cruel back. Sherlock’s refusal to make friends, particularly of the female gender (and there had been another secret unfolded, years before that situation would became an issue). Mycroft’s first (and last) girlfriend at age fourteen, and the name of the boy he fancied before he had the chance to tell his parents he preferred men.

The night that Mycroft, their calm, collected, mature eldest son, had come to his parents with wringing hands as the only sign of outward distress, Violet had cut him off before he could speak to ask whether Gregory Lestrade would prefer steak or chicken when he came over to dinner. Mycroft had stood in the middle of the living room, dumbfounded, looking between his mother’s innocently questioning expression and his father’s smile, before squeaking out “chicken” and walking quickly back to his room. _Of_ course _Mummy had known_ , he’d told his little brother, who was bursting with questions when he returned, _Mummy always knows._

And of course, Violet had known immediately when her youngest son came home from school one day absolutely smitten.

Tall, gangly, with dark curls and pale, stunning eyes, no one at his school could say he wasn’t handsome. In fact, Violet held little doubt that he would have had trouble dating, if it weren’t for the fact that her son was snarky, cold, aloof, distrustful, and almost _painfully_ shy. Sherlock had never been one for making friends, and he certainly hadn’t been one to go giving his affections out willy-nilly to just anyone. There had been that awful Wilkes boy in his ninth year class, and the Victor Trevor incident had only been a year ago. And if there was one thing Violet knew about her Sherlock, it was that he was the most unsociable creature in the world. It just made sense that she would have to meet this new boy in his interest immediately.

As a smart and talented young man, Mycroft had already gotten a job working for a low-level government worker at the tender age of twenty-three. With this job came more than a few perks, and Mycroft was quick to assure her that John Watson had a spotless school record and seemed to check out A-Okay.

Upon meeting John, it became obvious that he was just as besotted with Sherlock as her son was with him. And so the tradition of Mummy-Knows-All continued; when the two began dating, where the first date was held, when the first kiss happened…Violet knew. And she could not have been happier for her Sherlock.

But the night it all fell apart, Violet knew only by chance.

Cleaning had never really been her thing. If the house needed tidying, Siger was more than willingly to help with the minor chores around the house. Tonight, though, Siger was out with a few of his friends from Uni, and Sherlock had made a complete _mess_ of the upstairs hallway with his latest experiment.  Bending down to clear up some of the scattered specimens on the floor, she couldn’t help but overhear part of the conversation from inside Sherlock’s closed door.

“They have to…” her son’s voice whispered urgently, “I won’t take no for an answer. Mmm…I know, but where else will you stay? …No, that’s not an option, John. I’m certain they’ll say yes, I just need to ask…of course I’m sure, they love you! I…yes, I see your point. Mycroft’s room, perhaps? Oh, never mind, we’ll figure it out later. Come right over, I’ll ask in the meantime. I…ah…erm… _IloveyoutoogoodbyeJohn.”_

A sigh, and the sound of a phone slamming back into the receiver. On the other side of the door, Violet could hear worried footsteps tracing a pattern across the floor, back and forth, back and forth. Pacing was Sherlock’s way of expelling energy when his mind was racing too fast to think properly. It wasn’t hard to tell what the conversation had been about.

Violet sighed, standing upright. Of course she knew about John’s parents. His father was a strictly religious man, and an alcoholic at that, and any mention of non-heterosexuality was strictly forbidden under his roof. Sherlock had told her about John’s poor sister Harriet, kicked out on the streets the moment she’d come out to her parents and living with their aunt ever since. His mother, while kind and accepting, was a mouse of a woman, and standing up to anyone was the last thing she wanted to do. John’s relationship with Sherlock had been a closely-guarded secret in his house. Well, until tonight, she supposed.

Sherlock’s door swung open abruptly. Her son strode out with a confident, yet somewhat apprehensive expression, dead set on his mission.

“Mummy,” he began, straightening his shoulders, “I need to ask you something very important. Now, before I continue, I must explain the situation, and—“

“John can stay however long he likes,” Violet interrupted gently, going straight into full-blown mother mode, “I don’t know what is the matter with his parents, but anyone who willingly throws their son out of their home is not fit to be a parent, in my opinion. Go get the cot from the basement, I won’t have him sleeping in Mycroft’s room—honestly, he hasn’t cleaned since the last time he was home from University—and _Sherlock Sherrinford Holmes,_ go put on something besides your pajama trousers, you need to look respectable when your boyfriend gets here.”

She smiled at the way Sherlock’s shoulders slumped in relief, a relieved grin spreading across his features. “Yes, Mummy,” he said—and then he threw his arms around her middle and squeezed briefly before dashing down the stairs to the basement. Violet shook her head, following her son downstairs and heading into the kitchen. John’s favorite comfort food was stew, if she remembered correctly (which she did), and that boy needed all the comfort he could get at the moment.

 

* * *

 

 

The doorbell rang precisely twenty three minutes after John’s phone call—Sherlock had been watching the clock anxiously for the last fifteen—and he threw open the door before the last chime sounded.

John stood in the rain, shivering, with a backpack hanging off one shoulder and a suitcase resting beside him. Sherlock ushered him inside, where it was warmer and the chances of John getting hypothermia were considerably lower. “Hey, Sherlock,” John smiled weakly, his eyes sad and his body tense.

“Did you walk all the way here?” Sherlock bristled, taking the bag from his shoulder and slipping the coat off of him, “It’s four degrees and pouring rain, you’re going to get sick!” Without thinking, Sherlock pulled off his own sweater and pulled it over John, leaving him chilled in a thin button down shirt (the purple one that was _juuust_ this side of too tight; John’s favorite).

“Well sorry, it’s not like I could get a ride,” John said bitterly. Sherlock mentally slapped himself. His parents kicked him out, for Christ’s sake, who could have driven him over? He should have thought of that— _God,_ he was so _stupid_! _I should have offered a ride._

Sherlock threw his arms around his boyfriend, holding him close as an act of apology and of comfort. “I’m sorry,” he whispered into John’s shoulder. He felt John’s arms come up around him, hugging him back. John didn’t say anything, but Sherlock could feel him shaking, could sense the unshed tears coming soon. He wanted to say something else, something that could be comforting and just what John needed, but for once his mind was a blank slate. Thankfully, Mummy stepped in then and rescued him.

“Hello, John, dear,” she greeted as the two boys separated, “Dinner will be ready in an hour, if you’re hungry. We’re having stew, if that’s alright with you.”

John managed a small smile. “That would be lovely, Mrs. Holmes. Thank you so much for letting me stay for a little bit. I promise I’ll try to be out of your hair soon.”

Mrs. Holmes stepped forward and hugged John tightly. “You hush up, John Hamish Watson. You know you’re always welcome here, for however long you need. Throwing a boy out of his own home. Shameful and disgraceful is what it is, and your father had no right,” She smiled at him as she let him go, then turned to her son, “Sherlock, how about you and John go upstairs until dinner is ready? He needs some warming up.”

She bustled away, leaving the two boys alone with her quiet, angry mutterings floating down the hallway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to be clear, I've never had any experience with being kicked out of my house because of this, so please, if I got this wrong, I'm not trying to be mean I just have no idea how to do things


	3. Chapter 3

Lying on his side in the darkness of his room, Sherlock was worried. Even though the position he were in was quite comfortable and very lovely, curled up under the covers of his four poster bed, John’s arms wound around him with Sherlock’s head tucked under his chin, the small knot of anxiety in his stomach refused to go away. John was always the more talkative of the two of them; he had been unusually quiet for the past half hour. He had very good reason to be, of course, but his silence was still worrisome all the same. John held onto him tight, occasionally pressing kisses into the curly hair below and stroking Sherlock’s shoulder through the thin material of his shirt with the pad of his thumb, almost as if comforting him. It was so very like his boyfriend to want to be the strong one, to comfort and protect even when he was the one hurting. As emotionally stable as he seemed on the outside, if Sherlock knew his John well enough (which he did, obviously), there was definitely some form of turmoil brewing inside.

Sherlock lifted his head from under John’s chin and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. “What happened?” he murmured softly.

John sighed, shifting uncomfortably onto his side. “You already know, you probably deduced it the moment I stepped inside.” Sherlock snuggled closer, attempting to be the warm, open boyfriend that he expected one should be in this position.

It came to him that perhaps, in this situation, a good boyfriend would stay quiet and comforting, and let John talk when he felt like it and not push. Sherlock was always bad at being a good boyfriend. “You asked to go to the recital.”

“I asked to go to your recital,” John repeated, a bit harshly, and Sherlock felt guilt well up inside of him, “Dad said I’d been spending too much time with you, that it’s not normal for two boys to be spending so much time together—specially not when your off doing something prissy like ballet,” and here John’s arms tightened around him, “Well, I couldn’t just let him say that, so I just…told him. Everything. We’re dating, we got together months ago, just—everything. And he yelled, screamed about how I was “sinning” and “going against god”, and Mum started crying and asking why I couldn’t just behave for once—I yelled at them back, I wasn’t about  to let them just disregard the best damn relationship I’ve ever been in, and I stormed upstairs and just packed whatever was on hand, and Dad was just screaming the whole time, calling me—“ He broke off, his voice cracking with tears, and Sherlock burrowed himself into John, making shushing noises and rubbing his back.

John’s hand curled into Sherlock’s hair, his voice muffled by the bony shoulder his face was pressed against. “Jesus, the fucking things he called me. I’m his own son, dammit, why can’t he just fucking understand?!” he sobbed, curling his fists tighter into his boyfriend’s hair. Sherlock didn’t complain; he merely clutched John tighter and cooed and whispered sweet nothings in his ear, trying to calm him down even though he was panicking himself. Eventually, the sobs died down, and John pulled away with a hiccup.

Sherlock brushed aside a remaining tear with his thumb, tugging John’s face down to kiss him. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, peppering kisses along John’s lips, his cheek, his jaw, his neck, “I’m so, so sorry, John.” It was most certainly the most sincere apology he’d ever made in his life.

“ ‘s not your fault,” John mumbled, “My dad just happens to be an absolute dickhead.”

“You aren’t wrong.”

John laughed mirthlessly at that. “Yeah, well, I guess I don’t have to worry about coming out to him anymore, huh?”

Sherlock chose not to respond, not sure if the question was rhetorical or not. Instead, he opted to just snuggle closer and allow John to continue stroking his hands down his back until Mummy called up for dinner.

 

* * *

 

 

The two days before Winter Holiday passed as absolute hell.

By Thursday afternoon, the entire school had heard about the Watson’s falling out. Mostly through excited narratives by John’s neighbor and the person ranked number one in stupidity in Sherlock’s mind, Phillip Anderson. Classrooms halted to a dead silence whenever Sherlock or John entered, and quick whispers followed them down the hallways. Anderson even had the _nerve_ to ask where John was living, _to John’s own face,_ moments upon entering the English class they shared. Thankfully, his on-again-off-again girlfriend Sally Donavan was feeling gracious that day, and elbowed Anderson in the gut with a pitying frown directed at John.

Sherlock thought his boyfriend handled it all marvelously. Whereas he would snap out a string of painful deductions that left several people in Guidance, John held his head high and flat out refused to give a solid answer, sending the other students on their way with a glare. It was all quite brave, in Sherlock’s opinion, but unfortunately, it did nothing to stop the rumors and whispers they ran into at every turn.

So when, after school had _finally_ ended Friday afternoon, John plopped into a seat at the back of the bus and heaved a sigh of relief, Sherlock copied him. “That was awful,” he groaned.

“Yeah, it was,” John sighed, “Anderson’s a dick.”

“I’ve been saying that for years, and only just now you agree with me?”

John made a face and swatted Sherlock’s shoulder playfully. “Shut up.” Sherlock was about to complain, but John’s lips on his, however brief, made him swallow his retort.

“He’s still an idiot,” he mumbled when John pulled away.

The bus was loud and more obnoxious than usual, and the boys nearly ran off when it pulled up to their stop. As soon as they stepped onto the side walk, a scowl darkened Sherlock’s features. “Oh, for God’s sake,” he growled. John watched, amused, as he stalked past the new, shiny black car in the driveway and blew past the front door. “MYRCOFT!”

“Hello, brother dear,” Mycroft greeted from his seat in the living room. “John.” He nodded at his brother’s boyfriend with a smug expression that read “ _I know everything about the situation already.”_

“Mycroft.”

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock demanded, “You moved out years ago. I thought we were finally rid of your presence.”

Mycroft huffed and rolled his eyes in a move reminiscent of his brother, “Oh, dear God, it’s Christmas, people come and visit during the holidays. Or have you deleted that too?”

Pouting, Sherlock threw one final glare before storming up the stairs. John winced at the sound of a door slamming above. “D’you two have to do that every time?”

“I hardly began the matter,” Mycroft said with an affronted air. Staring, John repressed the urge to laugh; possibly the world’s two most clever men having sibling arguments, and one uses the “he started it’ line. His life was a nightmare.

“Right. Well, I’d better go, um…” he motioned up the stairs, “Yeah.”

And oh, there was that smirk that just made his blood _boil_. “Good luck with that, John.”

 _Fuck off, twit,_ John grumbled to himself on his way to listen to his boyfriend’s bloody whining about his brother.

It was going to be a long week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, no experience. Sorry.


	4. Chapter 4

The windows had frosted over into beautiful patterns of icy swirls overnight, and fat, fluffy white snowflakes drifted down outside. That, of course, meant it was well below freezing outside, and therefore only slightly above freezing the room. John sighed happily, warm and snug under the blankets, curling closer to the space heater he called a boyfriend beside him. Out of all the rooms in the Holmes household, Sherlock’s was the one with the most atrocious heating (and he liked freezing to death every night just fine, thank you very much). Sleeping on the camp bed dragged next to Sherlock’s enormous four-poster would have meant hypothermia if John’d slept there, so it was much easier to just share one with Sherlock. That, and the fact that Sherlock had whined (“ _please,_ John, you’re already here, what’s so different about being in the same bed?”) and complained (“honestly, John, it’s not like they don’t _know_ what we get up to, and being in the same room but separate beds won’t do a thing about it”) and tore down every one of John’s nervous (albeit weak) protests (“It’s not proper, what happens when your mum comes in a we’re half naked on top of each other?”) the first night he arrived, and really they both did sleep so much better snuggled up to each other at night. Sherlock even _slept_ , eight hours straight through, and if that wasn’t a sign of improvement he didn’t know what was.

Their holiday had thus far gone off without a hitch. Every day was spent together, John helping with experiments or Sherlock with the unfair amount of homework given to them, doing the shopping for presents (though John had thought ahead to bring most of his money with him, Sherlock rebuffed his efforts to pay), going out with Sherlock’s parents to do some “fun” family activity that only they and John thought was fun and Sherlock just put up with for John and his parent’s sake or just having some quality cuddles in front of the crackling fire. Sometimes, if Sherlock was in a sulk or just feeling unsociable, John would help with household chores or baking biscuits with Mrs. Holmes, giving his boyfriend and hour or two of alone time before going back and attacking him with kisses until he felt better. Only three rows were had between Sherlock and Mycroft, and they were minor ones at that. John went and helped Mr. Holmes cut down a tree (both Holmes brothers had refused, no matter how much coercion was spent by John and Mrs. Holmes). All five people in the house helped decorate though, and personally, John thought it was much better than the sad little thing his family had called a Christmas tree.

With only a small start, John realized it was Christmas already. Odd, waking up to complete silence and the smell of a delicious fry up wafting upstairs instead of shouting and arguing, a special Christmas morning treat of pancakes made from powder in a box, noisy relatives clogging up the already tiny house and encouraging the amount of alcohol in his father’s system because “It’s Christmas, Johnny, these things are allowed on special days like this”. This year, he was comfortably cuddling with a brilliant boyfriend instead of crowded against the wall with two cousins crammed in his bed. This year, maybe he would actually enjoy Christmas.

“You’re thinking too loud,” Sherlock mumbled, burrowing his head in the crook of John’s neck.

“Good morning to you too.” John could feel the smile against his neck as Sherlock snuffled into his shoulder.

They lazed there for several more long, luxurious moments. John relaxed in the down of the mattress, occasionally dropping kisses into the dark curls he loved so much. A glance over at the clock revealed it was nearly nine in the morning, far too late to be getting up on Christmas. “C’mon, we have to get up. Your mum’s already got breakfast started.”

Sherlock’s pout was evident in the way he tried to bury himself further into John’s warmth. “Mmm, don’t wanna,” His arms tightened like an octopus around John, “ ‘s nice here.”

 “I know, but we have to move sooner or later. Don’t you want to know what I got you for Christmas?”

That garnered a response. Piercing eyes flew open to regard John with a questioning look. “You got me something?”

“Mmhmm,” John pressed a final kiss against Sherlock’s hair and sat up, “Let’s see if you can deduce what it is first.”

Several minutes of comfortable silence passed. Then—

“New ballet slippers. Black silk. Very nice choice.”

Grinning like a madman, John somehow managed to pull on his pajama trousers and throw a pillow at the lump on the bed that he supposed was his boyfriend at the same time. “You brilliant git,” he said fondly, “But you’ll never know for sure until you come downstairs.”

“Ugh, _fine_ ,” groaned the lump as it sat upright into a human being once more. Sherlock glowered at John’s chuckle. “What?”

“Oh, nothing,” he sniggered, “Just never thought I’d actually have to coerce you out of bed.” He gleefully dodged the pillow returned to him via chucking at his head, listening as it hit the door with a satisfying _thunk_ when he closed it.

* * *

 

 

“Open that one next, John dear.” Mrs. Holmes pointed to a large parcel wrapped in shimmering blue paper under the tree. John plucked at the silver tag that read _To John, XXX,_ surprised at how light it was. He may not have been a deducing genius like nearly everyone else in the room, but even he knew the package was from Sherlock. The three Xs combined with the red tips of Sherlock’s ears were all good clues.

John tore at the paper, revealing a new oatmeal coloured jumper, soft to the tough but made of thick, durable material. “Sherlock!” he exclaimed, “I love it!”

Sherlock’s cheek reddened further under John’s peck, as he stammered out, “It’s to replace the one you left at home.”

“That was my favorite jumper too,” John sighed, “Oh, but this is so much better than the original! Thank you.”

John supposed a “you’re welcome” was said in the mumbling that followed, but his attention was being caught by a throat clearing from the other side of the room.

“For you,” Mycroft said coolly as he handed an envelope to John.

“Oh, Mycroft, you didn’t have to get me anything—“ He gaped at the piece of paper that slid out.

“Technically, I didn’t. I’ve taken the liberty to have all of your assets placed in a separate bank account accessible at any time you should need.”

“I—I don’t know what to say. Thanks, Mycroft.”

“Yes, well. It was no trouble.”

“Oh, Mikey,” Violet smiled at her son, causing him to sigh and mutter “That’s not…forget it.”

In the end, John got another jumper in dark blue from Mrs. Holmes and a DVD of _Doctor Who_ specials from Mr. Holmes. “Apparently, we’re the only two _normal_ people who like Doctor Who,” Mr. Holmes whispered conspiratorially, winking at John as the his wife and sons groaned in the background. John’s presents to the family went over fairly well. Mr. Holmes seemed genuinely pleased with the crime novel book, Mrs. Holmes loved the new patterned oven mitts, and Mycroft was…satisfied with John’s choice of tie pin. He was fairly certain he would never see Mycroft wearing said tie pin ever again, but it was nice of him to offer polite thanks anyway.

Sherlock grinned smugly upon opening the box containing his new ballet slippers, and then gasped in sheer, childish delight when removing the slippers revealed a brand new pair of durable goggles (his last pair had somehow disintegrated that time in the science lab at school that had resulted in a suspension and was never to be spoken of again). “Oh, _John,”_ he whispered, just after throwing his arms around his sheepishly grinning boyfriend, “You snuck these past me! I didn’t have a clue…oh, you brilliant thing!”

“Yeah, well. Had to surprise you somehow,” John blushed, seemingly unable to stop smiling, “Merry Christmas, you beautiful git.”

* * *

 

 

Panting, out of breath, and sweaty was not how Sherlock wanted John to see him. Now that the show was over and the lights down, he could finally feel how completely exhausted he was. The show had been a complete success, everything went smoothly and he was immensely overjoyed at how things turned out, even if he did have to kiss the vapid girl playing Odette. Even _that_ had been worth it, dancing through his first real role, knowing John was in the audience cheering him on (or he would, if it had been anything other than ballet). Sherlock had never felt more _alive,_ feeling the adrenaline coursing through his veins, flowing through the movements with ease and grace.

“Sherlock!”

And then, at the end of it all, was John. Magnificent, brilliant John, rushing towards him with a grin plastered on his face and a bouquet of flowers in his arms. The roses had undoubtedly been Mummy’s idea, but with John carrying them, it made it all seem more special. Sherlock allowed himself to be swept up in a bone-crushing hug, laughing and squeezing back.

“You were great!” John cheered, planting a kiss on his lips, “Jesus Christ, you were bloody fantastic! I didn’t know you could dance like that!”

Sherlock, mortifyingly enough, felt a blush heating his cheeks, sore from smiling already. “Yes, well…I did the best I could with someone interrupting my practice all the time.”

“Oh, shut up.” Another peck on the nose, and another on his cheek, “That was incredible, baby, really. You were so brilliant.”

He could see his parents and Mycroft heading their way. He lowered his voice, whispering something that had been gnawing at him for a while. “Sorry asking to go to my recital got you kicked out,” Sherlock murmured.  He inwardly grimaced at the blunt, heavy-handed wording, but only a frown and a shrug marred the joy of the moment.

“It wasn’t like I could keep it a secret forever I guess,” John sighed, “It’s still fucked up and I hate that it happened, but he wasn’t going to change his mind if I’d told him later. And I guess if that’s the punishment for being the boyfriend of the most perfect, dancer/deducer ever, well…” He nuzzled against Sherlock’s neck, “I can live with that.”

Relief coursed over him in waves. The guilt was still there, Sherlock decided, but muted. He knew John wasn’t completely over his father yet, but he was damned if he was ever going to let someone hurt his John like that again. “John?”

“Hmm?”

“I….I love you.”

John pulled away, looking at Sherlock like he was the most wonderful gift in the world. “I love you too, Sherlock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a lot longer than expected and had almost no plot. I really hope you liked it anyway, perlawellington! :D  
> (Sidenote: I write mostly at like 2 AM so if anything seems out of place or weird, it's because of lack of sleep. Thank you)

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea how Britian works so just...roll with it, okay?  
> Also I'm extremely bad at titles and there's only a bit of Swan Lake here. Sorry about the awful title.


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